color matches my mood. All I can think about is Iris spending the night under another man’s roof.
“It’s not like she could stay under your roof,” I mutter aloud as I drive. “You can’t even stay under your roof.”
I snort, realizing this is the first time I’ve ever regretted living in my tiny house. And it makes me feel ridiculous because it wouldn’t even matter what kind of house I lived in. Iris isn’t for me. She’s made that clear, and I should just be grateful she has somewhere safe to stay. With some other man who’s already part of the world she inhabits.
But reasonable thoughts are no comfort, and by the time I get to her street, I’m as full of lightning as the clouds overhead. When I pull into her driveway, the first fat drops have started to fall, splatting on the roof and windshield of my truck.
“Dammit.” I grab my rain jacket from the backseat, but with this wind, I’m about to get soaked in spite of it. Still, even from the inside of the cab, I can hear the windchimes hanging on Iris’s porch making a clanging racket. The winds aren’t even thirty miles an hour yet. The chimes have to come down and the rest of the stuff out here has to be put away, or Iris is going to come home to a yard mess at best—if not broken glass and rain damage in the house.
No matter what, no matter if she’s spending the night with someone else and I don’t have a chance in hell with her, I don’t want trouble for her. The truth is I’d do anything to help her. And it’s that thought that chases away some of the bitterness.
I want what’s best for Iris.
I leave the truck running with the headlights on and dash for the front porch just as the rain starts to pour in earnest.
Dropping to my knees on the bottom porch step, I run my hand under the plank of the top step as rain splashes off its surface and into my face. I find the key, cross the porch, and open the squeaking screen door.
As I fit the key into the lock, I calculate how long this mission will take and how badly Nonc is going to ride me when I show up at his house looking like a drowned raccoon.
It’s only when I push the door open that I hear the barking.
I reel back as Mica charges, teeth bared, eyes wild. “Whoa, boy!”
Chapter Twenty-Two
IRIS
I have to stop crying. Jonathan will be here to pick me up any minute. But the text on my phone makes me feel like I’m holding a hand grenade.
Moira: Take a picture of him when he gets there. Post it to IG. Tag J and give him credit for keeping you safe. We’ll go from there.
This is going to be a disaster. Why did I accept his invitation? Why did I let Moira push me into this?
I can’t do this. I can’t do this. It’s wrong. My director has no idea what he’s walking into. I can’t face him, knowing I’m part of a plan to manipulate him.
Who am I kidding? I’m the one manipulating him. If I’m handed a gun and told to shoot someone, I’m the murderer.
I’m the guilty one.
I just have to tell him what she’s up to. I can’t let him think he’s doing me a favor—looking out for me—when I know Moira wants to twist this into some demented advantage.
I can’t do this. I can’t.
Moira: And post by noon Eastern time or I will. We don’t want to miss lunchtime viewers.
“Fuck.” I already knew this would happen. She’s making it nearly impossible for me to refuse. Either I pull the trigger or she does.
Jonathan is going to hate me. He’ll never want to work with me again. This’ll ruin my reputation.
I’m huddled on my living room couch with an overnight bag at my feet in a full-on tailspin when Mica barks and runs for the front door.
“Shit,” I mutter, wetly, dragging the heels of my hands across my eyes. I pass the foyer on the way to the bathroom and see headlights and rain. “Shit.”
I whip out my phone and send Jonathan a quick text.
Me: One sec.
I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I look like trash day. It’s obvious I’ve been crying all morning and got almost no sleep last night. When I wasn’t torturing myself over what I’m about to do,